Sonnet XVII: Stand-Up Show on a Tuesday

The silence deafens, comic’s joke falls flat
He soldiers on, his eyes skimming his phone
Material’s overworked, hat on a hat
Another joke, another flop, a groan
He plays up the failure, deepens his frown
A laugh, thank god, he makes a mental note
Self hatred gets a chuckle, double down
He plays the fool and mocks the words he wrote
Best to beat the punch with a punchline, he thinks
Best to kick myself when down, amirite?
His comfort grows as his dignity shrinks
A bead of sweat escapes as he makes light
I could extend my laughter, save him, please
Instead I wrote this… clearly I’m fun at parties